


Sympathetic Natures

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 19:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16352390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Dorian gets sick, and Anders looks after him.(No, seriously, that's the plot, it's pure indulgent fluff. What? Everyone needs a break from routine now and again.)





	Sympathetic Natures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ponticle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/gifts).



“You’re hot,” I tell him. Dorian blinks slowly at me in the half-dark and mutters, “I don’t feel hot.”

As if to illustrate his point, he shivers under the blankets of our bed. This is a common-or-garden virus, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like shit…  _ and rightly so _ , a nasty little voice in the back of my head thinks,  _ you can’t overachieve for that long and not pay the… _

 

I cut it off and purse my lips. I’m about to speak when Dorian sighs. “Anders… Amatus, please… not today. Upbraid me about my work…” he coughs weakly and grimaces, then continues, “work habits later?”

“Am I that transparent?” I ask, shifting a little on the edge of the bed. Last night, Sunday, was an essay in discomfort; Dorian woke me several times, coughing, and every time I touched his skin it was clammy. The poor thing just cannot seem to sleep, which is obviously what his body needs. 

“No need to answer that one,” I sigh, smiling down at him. His eyes are trying to close again; he looks exhausted. I can’t help the way that my expression shifts to one of concern, and I put my hand on his forehead again, then stroke his cheek gently. He murmurs and shifts, obviously uncomfortable, so I remove my hand. “Love,” I murmur, “you’re not infectious, but you look awful, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. No work today. The nurse has spoken.”

He makes a noise of frustration, then appears to think better of it. The thing that I always find interesting about our relationship is how easily we seem to read each other — it’s as if we were two sides of the same coin sometimes. Dorian opens his eyes and looks at me, nods once, then begins to struggle up in the bed. “Just give me my laptop, please? I need to…”

“You need your  _ phone _ , because what you’re going to do is text that awful Cullen and get him to do some work for a change,” I tell him. To make my point, I rise and cross the room, going into the short hallway and then into the living area. Our phones are side-by-side, and Dorian’s is already alight with notifications. I narrow my eyes at it, then sigh and go back into the bedroom.

 

He’s sitting up, holding his head. I can feel my expression change as I look at him, and before I realise what it is that I’m saying, I ask, “Do you want me to stay with you today?”

“No,” he half-groans. “It’s just… a little virus.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, and sigh. I kneel up onto the bed and crawl over to him. “Here,” I say, giving him the phone. He takes it with one hand, still holding his head with the other, and I laugh a little as he peers at it, then puts it on the bed. “It hurts my eyes,” he tells me, and laughs sadly. “Amatus, I  _ hate _ this.”

“I know,” I tell him. We look at each other for a while, then I smile, “You might hate it… but I kind of like it when you’re sick.”

 

“ _ That’s _ disturbing,” Dorian says, then winces, clutching his head harder, “My head feels like it’s in a vice.”

I laugh a little, and he smiles sadly. Watching him, my heart seems to expand in my chest. He’ll survive of course — Dorian is a survivor. But the truth of it is, I  _ do  _ like it a little when he’s sick. He slows down, he stays at home, sleeps. He’s a good patient, really. When he’s like this, I get to coddle him a little; normally, Dorian is so organised that I don’t get the opportunity to do that. “Alright,” I say, “You text your rotten boss and I’ll get ready. Are you sure I can’t stay at home and look after you though?”

 

He mumbles something, shaking his head and squinting at his phone. I allow myself one last look at him, knowing the expression on my face is indulgent, and turn, shuffling off the bed and rising. But before I can leave the room entirely, Dorian rasps, “Anders?”

“Yeah?” I ask as I turn to face him again. And there he sits, beautiful in the rumpled sheets, his nose a little red, his skin pallid, a tiny half-smile on his lips. We stay there for a moment, just looking at each other, then he sighs. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I ask him, frowning a little. He rolls his eyes and coughs, a pained expression on his face.

“ _ You _ know,” he tells me, and smirks. For an instant, there’s a glimpse of his well-self there and I smile. I love him so much. “For saving me from myself.”

“Oh, Love.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes now. “You don’t need saving. And don’t worry. You’ll be back to your usual kind of hotness in no time.”

Dorian laughs a little, then coughs again. “The cheek of it,” he mutters, “Here I am, clearly on my deathbed…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say and flap my hand. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with some tea. Send that text message, you.”

And with that, I turn and leave the room, though I know my head and my heart will be with him wherever I go.

**Author's Note:**

> Glad you're feeling better, ponticle. x


End file.
